Evolution to Perfection
by blackraven23
Summary: Self sacrifice proves an insufficient payment for the sin of betrayal, Sasuke learns. However, he continues to fight to become what he has always feared, finding comfort and stability in the few things he can still control.
1. Prologue

**Evolution to Perfection**

by blackraven23

**Disclaimer**: I'll only say this once. Naruto. Is. Not. Mine. _Comprehende?_

**Warning**: Also something I'll only say once. Mentions of suicide and other self-mutilation processes, underlying theme of an eating disorder, dark thoughts, sexual innuendos, and spoilers if you dont keep up with the manga _at all_.

Oh, and if you dont like this, then keep your mouth shut.

I cant say I've ever personally experienced an eating disorder, so if I say something about it that is totally and completely wrong, then slap me. You are NOT alone people, there IS help out there :( I dont know what else to say. I'm sorry.

**Summary:** Self-sacrifice proves an insufficient payment for the sin of betrayal, Sasuke learns. However, he continues to fight to become what he has always feared, finding comfort and stability in the few things he can still control.

* * *

_It will take you over. It will take you away. It will become you._

Upon first observation, it seems to be silent in the hospital rooms, only the faint sounds of the wind striking against the panes of the closed windows marking the passage of time. Every room lies dark, the shades drawn against the darkness that threatens to invade the sanction of the sick. However, it is not entirely silent.

Enter one of the rooms and soft breathing can be heard, adding to the slow symphony building up just outside of those wooden barriers. The low strum of a bass, with the occasional high breath of a violin peaking above the notes; the harmony occasionally broken by an unexpected creak of the floorboards, as though a ghost drifts through the rooms. The kick of a symbol as water stills in the stainless steel pipes, streams slipping out of the rims as the leaks rust the pistons; the rustle of paper as gravity finally takes its toll, knocking over a stack of Get Well Soon! cards straight onto the clean and glassed floor.

They are beautiful, these sounds; an unusual harmony that twists the normal view of what is required of a work of art. But, lying on a starched-white hospital bed, covered in a bleached hospital blanket and cover, is a work of art in its own self: a warped and distorted view of humanity at its weakest, as well as its strongest; a body disfigured almost past recognition, the stage of health deteriorated past the point of sanity.

Sleep-lidded eyes are closed, breaths coming in short stabs from the lungs, chest puffing out as the lips purse. Hands clutch at the covers near the hips, stretching the thin woolen fabric across the bony expanse. The pale skin has spider webs of veins underneath the pallid surface, the blue lines contrasting with the unnaturally wan skin in the forearms, before disappearing under the milky surface in the upper arms. The blanket shifts slightly, the thin blue shirt lifting upwards, revealing stark white skin that bony ribs show painfully through.

Hair splays outwards from the skull-like face, the sunken features haunting and heart-wrenchingly raw. Deep black circles surround the closed eyes, lids heavy and covered with sheen of sweat. Everything about the person seems to be hollow, jaded, oppressed. It's as though they were transported straight from a Jewish concentration camp—eyes heavy and tired from lack of sleep, body gaunt and empty after so many days without food, demeanor hopeless.

The skeleton-like form twitches suddenly as a rock hits the window, skittering over the grimy glass before dropping out of sight, and under the lids, the eyes shift back and forth, as though searching for something. The moment the sound is gone, however, the eyes stop in their movement, and a sigh escapes the chapped lips of the room's unconscious prisoner.

Tubes of all shapes and sizes are connected to the sleeping form: an oxygen mask is strapped to the face of the boy; an IV connected to a gradually dripping bag of clear liquid was stuck in his arm, and a heart-rate monitor beeps steadily at his side, the white line peaking and going flat progressively on the black-and-white screen. Numerous other machines beep in the darkness, their tubes and cords wrapping the unconscious boy in a layer of technology that could sense trouble from a mile away.

Step back, for the story does not only include this fragile study of humanity, and there are more. Escape from this sanctuary, and head down the dimly lit hallway, cluttered with expensive-looking contraptions, linen baskets, garbage cans, and uncomfortable chairs, towards a place of unknowns: the waiting room. There, everything is brightly lit, bleached white, and smells slightly of disinfectants.

People are curled up in chairs, on the floor, and littering corners with their unwashed presence. Most are asleep, the stress—combined with the fatigue of staying up for nearly three days in a row in worry—taking its toll. One buys food from a vending machine on the wall, watching the unhealthy food drop from its rack out of sight, before bending over to retrieve it. Another steps from the bathroom, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with slightly wet hands. He will be going home soon—the doctors have just told him that his wife will live.

Others are not so lucky: one man has been told that his first child will probably not survive the night, another—sobbing, curled into the fetal position on a chair nearby—that her best friend's stab wounds were fatal, and yet another that their slowly dying, AIDS-diagnosed husband only has six more months to live.

The waiting room runs in high energy, the tension feeding it steadily, greedily, despite the bedraggled and unhappy demeanors of its residents. It contrasts greatly with the sleepy and almost peaceful atmosphere of the hospital rooms-- nurses flit here and there, reading off charts to doctors who run from surgery to surgery, fighting to save (but progressively losing) lives; the people half-asleep, spread out over chairs, waiting for news, ready to be awoken at a moments notice.

Focus in on two inhabitants of the room: one boy, the other a girl. They are no different from the other occupants; the boy is sprawled over three chairs, fidgeting nervously in his light sleep, blonde hair dirty and stringy as it lies close to his troubled face. The girl is curled up in one chair, hands folded in her lap, head resting against the wall, face peaceful and seemingly unaffected by the troubles going on around her. However, she knows more than she shows, and has only fallen asleep due to complete and utter exhaustion. Tears streak her otherwise pretty face, their salty remnants carving trails through the accumulated dirt that four days wait—along with a mission—has brought her.

It's like a dream, focusing closer, forgetting everything else. Seeing the intricacies that the web of tears has wrought upon the grime of her skin, the places where dirt accumulates making tiny piles at the bottom of her pointed chin. Become so focused as to not even notice the sudden upstart of activity near the nurses' station.

Doctors start running down the hall towards a red, flashing light, and they turn at the door to a familiar room. Lights flicker on, flooding what was once shrouded in a kind dimness into harsh reality. Wails of several machines fill the otherwise empty air, the fragile peace crushed by these sounds.

The slender body is surrounded by ICU doctors, frantic nurses, and an air of hesitant tension—an air that is waiting, waiting for the end, for the words to escape the qualified lips, to tell them the worst, to tell them anything. Shouting echoes through the room, orders are followed by more orders; something must be done to save this boys life.

He is close, so close, to the precipice between life and death; he is teetering on the tip of the mountain, and the scales can be so easily tipped between seconds. Any wrong move, any mistake, can cost him his life.

Then, the heavy metal door swings shut, blocking the room from the outside world, settling the hallway in peaceful dimness once again.

* * *

**TBC**

just a prologue, rewritten for grammar.


	2. Hate

I cant say I've ever personally experienced an eating disorder, so if I say something about it that is totally and completely wrong, then slap me. You are NOT alone people, there IS help out there :( I dont know what else to say. I'm sorry.

_

* * *

_

_Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion, or it will control you._

Sasuke stared down at Naruto's broken and bloody body guiltily, attempting to conjure up some feelings of disgust. He was desperately trying to reign in his emotions, his thoughts, his _heart_, but was failing miserably. Tears dripped down his face without acknowledgement, mixing with the heavy rain falling from the sky. The anger he had felt earlier had dissipated as the fight had turned into something no words could aptly describe. He felt empty, as though everything had been stolen from him.

Then something struck him in the chest—it felt like a kunai, but when he lifted his hands to the front of his shirt, his fingers brushed no metal. The area around where he supposed his heart was aching painfully, the small twinges of regret that had affected him in the first few minutes of their fight steadily progressing until it felt like an anvil had been attached to his heart and chucked off a mountain. His body constricted, pulling close to the place of pain, hands pulling out from his pockets to hold his heart.

His _best friend_—his _fucking best friend_—was lying almost-dead on the sandy beach, unconscious, because of _him_. He had almost _killed _him! He had been so close, so deadly close, to killing him and acquiring the Mangekyou sharingan—why had he faltered? Why had he shown weakness to the one person that wouldn't accept weaknesses from him?

Why couldn't he just kill the boy; what was so hard about that? The boy was certainly annoying enough, and loud enough—the worst trait in a _shinobi_, whose job was all about stealth—not to mention 'stupid' enough. Hardly anyone would miss him. People from the village that still harbored malicious sentiments towards the Kyuubi fox inside his navel would probably give Sasuke a damn medal!

But if it wasn't that that stopped him, then what had it been? Surely it couldn't have been the almost-sorry, almost-vulnerable look that Naruto had given him just before Sasuke's fist had punctured his lung. Surely it hadn't been the aches in his chest, telling him not to kill his best friend; no, no, don't kill your best friend, its stupid. Surely it hadn't been the tears that had started to fall from the deep blue eyes as Naruto had transformed into a monster before Sasuke's very eyes. Surely it wasn't anything to do with the memories of Naruto telling him that Sasuke was his _best _friend in the entire world, and nothing could persuade him otherwise.

Surely, Sasuke wasn't going—gasp!—soft, and actually _considered_ Naruto as his best friend as well. No, he reminded himself, steeling himself, that wasn't it.

Tears continued to fall down his face as he knelt in the squelching sand, mud clinging to his shins and feet. He wiped his eyes with his hands, scrubbing hard, trying to stem the flow that never seemed to end. Leaning over Naruto, shielding the unconscious boy's face from the rain for a few seconds while he looked into his 'best friend's' eyes, Sasuke couldn't help but regret his decision, if only for a second.

This boy, this innocent, naïve boy that thought he could change everything with words and impossible promises; why was he having trouble leaving him behind for his dream? Avengers didn't have friends.

"Naruto, I," Sasuke began, his voice cracking. He felt like the worst person in the world, leaning over his enemy, his friend, his teammate, trying to say he was sorry.

"Naruto…" his voice caught in his throat, and he held back a sob, screaming for control in his mind. He was _not _weak, he didn't need this _dobe_—he didn't need anyone. There was nothing to feel.

Besides, it wasn't as though Naruto could hear him in his condition—he was unconscious, for kami-sama's sake! He would be babbling to himself; it was pointless, really.

"Naru--" he began, but an epiphany hit in the middle of the second syllable. Realization: He was a failure. He couldn't even kill the boy that had made his life miserable for the past year and a half. He was nothing like Itachi, he would never be Itachi. Now, he could never beat Itachi.

He had failed.

Because he had faltered that one moment, had been soft-hearted that _one _time, he would never kill the man that had killed his parents. Naruto had made him miss his dream. Even if he shot now, he wouldn't make it to the moon; he would land amongst the stars, his dream too far to reach. Tears restarted down his cheeks and he damned them for showing his weakness. It didn't matter that it was raining, it didn't matter that he was crying for the first time in so long, it didn't matter that he was bleeding everywhere, his blood mixing with Naruto's. Nothing mattered anymore, now that his dream was gone.

Damn that fucking dobe; damn that _usuratonkachi_! Sasuke slammed his fist to the right of the boy's head, his knuckles disappearing into the soft ground. _I hate you,_ Sasuke thought. _I hate you for stealing my dream! I hate you for my weaknesses; I hate you for everything you've ever done._ _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…_He needed the hate that Naruto gave him.

He choked on Naruto's name as his mouth went to say it again, and grabbed at his throat as he continued to choke. Even the boy's name was poison—he was lethal, he could make him stop. No, he had to be stopped first; Naruto _had_ to die before Sasuke could. Sasuke coughed until he could hardly breathe, spitting out the phlegm that he had captured in his mouth. Then, when there was no more, his body aching and tired, he dry heaved into the sand. Acid threatened his throat, but, swallowing, Sasuke quelled his rebellious stomach. He collapsed onto the beach, whole body quivering as he struggled to control his thoughts.

Being so close to Naruto now, closer than he had ever been, Sasuke could see things he hadn't noticed before. He saw how the fading light played off Naruto's golden hair, making it shine as though it were almost gold; he noticed how the boy's closed eyelashes curved against his cheek; he noticed how calm, how _fragile _the boy seemed. And then he almost felt guilty for everything he had done. Almost. Why couldn't he be mad anymore?

He wanted to cry, to scream, to do _something_ to let go of the pressure inside of his chest but, suddenly, all of his energy was gone and he was left—an empty corpse, ready for delivery straight to Orochimaru. Why was he so empty? How is it that the fight with the idiot he had always strained to be away from— the idiot that, he repeated, over and over again, could do nothing and meant nothing to him—made him feel so abruptly drained?

But this was a circuitous thought pattern, Sasuke decided, and shoved the thoughts away. A vicious cycle that his mind never seemed to want to let go though it was, the control it gave him was vaguely seductive. It was somewhat like Orochimaru was offering…

_No!_ He thought, body coming alive with an unexpected energy as he sprang onto his hands and knees, pains and exhaustion forgotten. _What Orochimaru is offering is not seductive, I am not weak and do not succumb to seduction. I only want it because it means I can kill my brother. That's it—nothing more. Naruto is nothing, always has been, always will be. Everyone but my brother is useless, forgettable. _

_Even me._

"Naruto, you are nothing," Sasuke said emotionlessly, utmost conviction evident in his voice, just to make sure he meant it.

Then he took one last look at the boy that had ruined his life—his _one _dream for so long—and reached up to his head. Undoing the knot that held his Konoha hitai-ate to his head, he let the metal-covered cloth fall to the ground. If that was the thing that was so important to the boy, then he would get rid of it.

He wouldn't need it where he was going.

Then Sasuke turned on his heel and left, ignoring the pains in his chest that increased with every aggrieved step he took away from the broken body behind him. It felt as though his body was resisting every move he made—he was treading through molasses; it wouldn't let him go. He was tempted to send chakra out of his tenketsu points to test if the threat was real or just in his mind, but remembered that he had hardly enough chakra to stand, let alone any to spare.

_There is nothing wrong with me,_ Sasuke thought, his step growing in confidence until he was almost striding across the beach. _I am leaving everything else behind. _And so, he disappeared into the woods—while clutching at his chest as dignifiedly as he could—without sparing a backwards glance at his once-best friend.

* * *

Naruto was floating in something warm and soft—it cradled his body, curving to hold him until every muscle and bone was as comfortable as could be. The place where he lay smelled sweetly of lavender and vanilla, a sensuous fragrance that permeated his brain and muddled his thoughts. Everything was fuzzy, rounded until oblivion encircled every angle, fraying the edges of the spines and blades so they no longer could penetrate. He could be lying on a bed of nails now, and he wouldn't know it, so was the power of this place. 

This place of softness, of sensuality and beauty, he wanted to stay here forever. It was so different from the cold world he usually occupied—there everything was angles and pain, wounds and codes that he could not abide by and be whole. But to be offered this? He would be content to linger in this place of abject beauty, clutched in its velveteen hold while the rest of the world fell into pain and suffering.

What did the world ever do for him, anyways?

The villagers—part of his world— hated him. They threw bottles, knives, _jitsus_, pain, feelings, fear and hatred into his face every single day. They never spoke to him but to spite him, spurn him and try to kill his already broken heart. They never acknowledged him, they never liked him. What was the point of becoming Hokage if everyone hated him?

How many times had he called for rest, for a break in the never-ending call of life? How many times had he just wanted the world to pause while he caught his breath? How many times had he wanted time to stop so he could enjoy the moment, enjoy the peace and simplicity of the brief pause in pain?

How many times had he wanted to just _stop_?

And now, it seemed that life had delivered his heart's true dream right into his grasp. He had finally received what he wanted.

Hokage was his dream on the outside, but after Sasuke, he only wanted to rest.

Sasuke… His best friend…

_Not anymore, _a voice said.

Naruto closed his eyes; he just wanted to rest, please! And as the thoughts of Sasuke disappeared, he sighed contentedly.

There was nothing that could convince him to leave now, not even his best friend.

_Sasuke…_

* * *

Kakashi jumped through the forest, landing on a branch for a moment before disappearing ahead, the tree's limb shaking in response. His breath was heavy behind the black cotton mask he always wore, and he was more tired than he ever thought himself to be capable of. Whole body aching, he surged ahead, fear and compassion fueling him, the potent mixture of the two deadly in his veins. 

The heavy rain dripped through the forest green leaves, splattering against his face and clothes, making everything seem intense and dark. There was an air of apprehension hanging about him—he could feel his body press against it, could feel how it snapped back with every move he made. It held him from getting where he needed to be—between Sasuke and Naruto, to make sure they didn't kill each other and leave him again, broken and alone, without friends or family.

_But maybe, I'm just being selfish. Maybe they both need this—they need to learn about the real world, real pain, real life. Maybe I can't stop them even if I want to. _But Kakashi knew that even if he was being selfish, he couldn't help it. He needed to be there. He needed to try to stop them. He needed to keep them alive, no matter what. Even if they both wanted to die, they needed to live.

_Don't you see, Naruto and Sasuke? You're part of something bigger than you know. And this time, I cant be too late to save you. _

He sped on into the ensuing night, body straining, muscles tense and mouth set in a grim line under the mask. _I will get there on time to save you. I will get there…_

But, would he?

* * *

(silence)... okay no eating disorders _yet_, but he kinda needs to get to Orochimaru's first before that can start. and then it will snowball out of control! thank you for the reviews, they made me happy! hehe. oh and no i dont speak japanese (wishes she could). 


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